Mothering is an act of slowness, 

a fabric that's woven daily,

of equal parts calm and chaos,

it's the repetition of flow,

and the little rituals that move mountains.

A gift not to be rushed,  

of babies in arms, and toddlers on hips,

a hand softly touching, a heart gently beating,

an early morning snuggle before the day starts,

a coffee held with two hands, and toast without crusts,

a sink filled with dishes, clothes to collect,

sheets on the line, catching warmth and sunshine,

it's a beautiful mess.

Wandering through the quiet,

breathing it all in,

the house waits for their arrival

as the school day ends.

Dinner at the table,

my whole world with me,

stories to tell,

tales to share,

as the long shadows dance on the walls,

tired eyes and full hearts,

there's magic in the ordinary,

a day lived, a life loved.